<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Purple as Anything by Hopetohell</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211592">Purple as Anything</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hellraiser &amp; Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Movies), Night Hunter (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Cockwarming, Dubcon play, Monsterfucking, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Purple Prose, Reader-Insert, Roleplay, Romance Novel, Sex Toys, Smut, Tentacles, Threesome, Voyeurism, soft dom walter marshall, thigh riding, writer mike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:53:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,940</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike writes terrible romance novels to pay his way through college.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mike (Hellraiser)/Reader, Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You, walter marshall/mike (hellraiser)/you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“And grasping his thick, turgid member in one meaty hand, he guided his throbbing velvet-wrapped shaft into her slick love canal, like a greased-up soldier going down a slip-n-slide. Together they rose to such heights of ecstasy—“ Hey, Mike. What is this? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Hey! Give it back, that’s not— oh damn it. It’s—</em>
</p>
<p>It’s a romance novel. Not only that, it’s one of the most cloyingly purple, euphemistic, questionable depictions of the art of fucking that you’ve ever laid eyes on. And more than that, it’s familiar, unsettlingly so; Mike stands and rakes his hands through his curls and waits for you to mock him for this new discovery. But there’s a phrase shining from the laptop screen, something about a breath through water, and it catches at your memory in a familiar way, like</p>
<p><em>Hang on. Let me— </em>and there it is, in your bag, the latest Annaliese Bishop novel: <em>The Pirate Kings. </em>And there, on the page with the threesome between Waltham, his rival Archibald, and the fair maiden they’ve been passing back and forth between them, is that same phrase. </p>
<p>
  <em>And like the flaming sword of the archangel Michael, Waltham’s fleshy pole melted away her inhibitions as he buried himself to the hilt in her forbidden lady garden. And as she felt his pearly effluence coat the walls of her humid cavern, she released a wet breath like that of a swimmer rising from the sea. </em>
</p>
<p>It’s almost beautiful, compelling in its overwrought awfulness, and when you tell him so he— <em>grins,</em> open and shining, his body relaxing as he slouches back into his chair. <em>You don’t think the velvet shaft is a bit much?</em></p>
<p>Of course it is, but it’s also very on-brand. And Bishop’s books—<em> Mike’s </em>books— are wildly popular. You should know: you’ve ridden your own hand often enough to <em>that </em>scene, the one where secret agent William Stirling fucks the heroine by moonlight, calling her his <em>little nightingale </em>as his shaft seems almost to glow in the light streaming through the window and—</p>
<p>And okay, the prose is absurd, but there’s something compelling underneath, something desperate and wild, something </p>
<p>
  <em>Mike. </em>
</p>
<p><em>I know. I know. Ridiculous, right? But I’m getting out of here without any student debt. And listen. Listen. It’s hard work being that awful. It takes rigid dedication, heavy pulsating devotion—</em> he’s grinning, utterly unrepentant; now that he’s been discovered he might as well go all in. <em>Hey. I’ve been having trouble blocking this new scene. Maybe you can help. So Waltham’s got the girl pinned against the mast like this—</em> he’s so close now, <em>fuck, </em>rising to crowd you against the wall and his mouth is smiling easily but his eyes are burning, nearly black. </p>
<p><em>See, I need him to say something about how his loins long for her, but—</em> he is so warm where he’s pressed against you and his voice is rough and wrecked —<em>I keep coming back to this. To you. And I <br/>think— I want— can I have you?</em></p>
<p>And yes,<em> yes, </em>absolutely he can; he gathers your wrists above your head in his one hand, working his thigh between your legs and <em>grind on me, just like that, god you’re gorgeous. Listen. Listen. The pirate king, he’s so big, so— fuck— so intimidating. He could do whatever he wanted, but he won’t. Because she needs to want it too, you see? Otherwise it’s meaningless. </em></p>
<p><em>Yeah, no problem there. </em>But the levity falls through; you’re soaking his thigh and breathing harsh and ragged, chasing orgasm as fast as you can while he whispers to you, teeth sharp over the shell of your ear. </p>
<p><em>After you come. If you still want me, I’ll take you to bed and I will show you everything I know. If you let me.</em> He tenses his thigh, then, the bunching muscle a sudden perfect pressure that sends your mind reeling even as he drops your hands to cradle your face, even as you’re shaking apart against him. And Mike, sweet, goofy, unbelievably earnest Mike, pulses visibly through his grey sweats, fighting for control, waiting on your word.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Winter Retreat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>I need a break, </em>Mike says, and sets his glasses down. The deadline’s drawing near, and he’s tired of pirates. <em>I’ve been spending so much time on Waltham’s throbbing manhood, I feel like the poor guy’s about to have a coronary. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>So whaddya want to do about it?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Let’s take the weekend, go out to Tuolomne again. I’ll write pirates during the day, and we can fuck under the stars all night. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Romantic. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Yeah. </em>Feigning innocence. <em>Besides. Maybe I’ll find my great American novel there. I’m thinking death and sorrow in the old west, something like Abbey, maybe, or Denis Johnson. Something that’s not more fucking pirates.</em> </p>
<p>This time of year it’s cold as fuck in Tuolomne but cabins are cheap. And there’s something holy about it, about the way the wind sighs through the pines, about the way rain softly becomes snow as you watch through the window. </p>
<p>Mike sets aside time each day for what he needs to write, and it flows easily enough from him; bored housewives can’t seem to get enough of those limpid cerulean pools and rigid shafts. </p>
<p>
  <em>It’s like a puzzle, you know? I’ve got all these pieces, all the stuff readers just eat up. It’s just arranging them into different patterns. Maybe someday I’ll show you the stuff I don’t send my publisher. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You mean there’s more? You got anything else about Stirling? </em>
</p>
<p>He laughs, low and easy, all smoke and winter chill and cheap bourbon. <em>Nah. But I can show you. </em>He glances up at you over the top of his reading glasses; night has fallen and it is Mike’s time to play. His hand is warm on your thigh as he marks the shift of your hips, the fractional forward tilt as you seek his hand at your center. </p>
<p><em>Why Stirling? </em>Softly, as though he’s genuinely curious.<em> He’s so cold. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Determined. Immovable. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Cold. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Nah. If he were cold he’d just leave after. But instead Angelica finds him sitting up in bed, watching the window. Touching his hand to his lips, what was it? “And with the tip of his sweet pink tongue, he lapped at his fingers, thinking of the way his thick wet tongue had wormed its way into her moist depths like an eel returning home to its burrow; he remembered her luscious womanly cavern opening to him by moonlight, glistening like silver with the juices of her need, juices that ran over his fingers and lips like a waterfall, soaking the collar of his suit.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>Psh. Don’t tell me you got off to that crap. </em>He’s trying and failing to be dismissive; though he knows the bodice-ripper stuff is almost offensively purple, still his cock pulses to hear you reminisce, to know it’s <em>his </em>words that got you wet, <em>his </em>prose, however extravagant, that had you in your dorm bed late at night, three fingers deep, trying to remain unheard. </p>
<p>
  <em>I— yeah. Yeah, I did. When he lifts her up onto the windowsill, and she’s leaning her head back, looking out at the moon. When she feels his tongue on her and can’t quite believe it—</em>
</p>
<p><em>Really? All the best parts were cut. </em>His hand is inside your underwear now, fingers stroking softly; his breath ghosts over your thigh with each word. <em>What I really wanted was for him to take her folds so carefully between his teeth— </em>and he’s baring you to the waist, urging your thighs just that little bit further apart and now his voice is muffled as he nips so carefully at your folds, as he strokes his fingers over and then into you. <em>God, you’re gorgeous. I want you to come on my tongue, can you do that for me? Lean back. Look. Look at the moon, just like she did. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Mike. It’s snowing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Then look at the moon behind the snow. See it in your mind’s eye for me. Listen. I’d have had her thighs clenched so tight around his ears, he couldn’t hear her cries. I wanted him to feel them vibrating through his skin, to gauge how close she was by the way she shivered on his tongue. I wanted— </em>
</p>
<p>But he is lost to this, to the taste of you, to the saliva and liquid need that coat his chin. He tries to keep his eyes open, to pin you with his gaze as you try to look at the sky,  leaning back with your hands on the sill. But his eyes keep drifting shut as he loses himself in you, in the way you can’t help but tense and rock yourself down onto his tongue. It’s so much, the way he eats at you like a starving man, his fingers playing around his tongue, spreading you open for him. It’s messy and wet with just the barest graze of teeth, and when you fall to pieces for him it’s with a soft, punched-out <em>oh. </em></p>
<p>Mike’s smile is dopey when he pulls back to look at you; he’s a little bit in love with this, with the way you shine all over his face, with the way you tremble so delicately through the aftershocks. But he is hard still, and when he opens his mouth it’s to destroy you in an entirely new way. <em>So. Stirling. Did you think about him? No? Really? Huh. Well. I’d like to fuck you now, and I want you to pretend it’s him. </em></p>
<p>And as you reach for Mike, he is doing his damnedest to put on a suave face but he is smiling still, open and happy and if only he could be this way forever. <em>Cmon</em>, he says, and if his smile slips it’s only for a moment. <em>Let me be your secret agent man. </em>So what else can you do but snort and punch his arm? And his smile steadies, opens up, and for a while the world is righted on its axis.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Tangling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Walter joins the party, and it looks like Mike’s getting some inspiration for his next novel.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Show him. Show him exactly how you like it. Look at how pretty he is with his head between your legs. That's it. Move him by his hair, you know he loves it.</em> </p>
<p>And Walter sighs his big deep sigh, drawn from the depths of his massive chest, as your shoulders roll back against him. It's impossible to watch Mike work, much as you love it; he is angelic and ruinous where he settles, where he laps at you with eager strokes of his tongue. Watch him long enough and he will look up to you with eyes huge and dark; he will burn you to ash with his fevered gaze. He will bury you in him even as he buries himself in you.</p>
<p>
  <em>Babe, please. Let me, let me, let me</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(ruin you</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>give you everything, give myself to you)</em>
</p>
<p>Let me.<em> Let me, </em> as Mike's working you wet and messy and somehow perfect, pure vigor and enthusiasm. Your hand in Mike's curls makes him groan resonant against you, wrapped in wetness and he is dying, he has ascended to another plane, led by the line of your hand to your arm to Walter behind you steady and quiet, his voice a vibration along your spine. </p>
<p>
  <em>Look at him, how he is subsumed by your taste, by how fucking wet you are for him. Don't hold back. Wrap your legs around his head and watch him struggle. Watch his eyes, watch how much he wants this. Wants you. Wants us. He can still taste me in you. </em>
</p>
<p>Mike hears, the words creeping through his mind, settling into whatever cracks aren't occupied with the taste of you, with the lingering salt and musk where Walter had you earlier, split apart with a cock almost too big to be real, while Mike slithered and slunk all around, waiting his turn, reaching in with curious fingers to feel where you were stretched so wide. Mike hears, and he rocks his hips down against the bed, and he eats at you with fervor, the wet sounds of his tongue bound up in his soft and needy breaths.</p>
<p>
  <em>(Let me? Can I-- Please, please, I'll die without it</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'll keep you)</em>
</p>
<p>It's all too much with your blood still burning, but here you are, and here they are, big and warm and solid and</p>
<p>
  <em>(safe, you're safe with me. With us)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Do you think he'll put us into one of his stories later, when you and I are sleeping tangled up together? Picture it, beautiful. Him slouched in his chair, face glowing in the light of the laptop screen. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Hey babe)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He'll look up, maybe, and smile, because he almost asked you about it, didn't he? Almost woke you with the want to share, with the pure pleasure of knowing you're here with him. And he'll bite his lip; he'll change one word to make it all a little bit too much, to disguise himself in prose that's purple like a bruise. </em>
</p>
<p>Mike's caught out; he knows it and he doesn't mind. He smiles against your skin and you can feel it; he follows your hand and Walter's words and he lets himself be lost. And Walter, for his part, might be spent and sated but there's that twitch of interest against your skin, pressing hot at your spine. He sighs and bars an arm across your ribs; he is indulgent here, warm and solid at your back. </p>
<p><em>You’re safe here, sweetheart. Use his mouth, enjoy him. Enjoy this.</em> Walter's arm is a cage; if he wanted he could pin you here forever. But now he has other plans: he wants to watch you shake to pieces, and he wants to have you again. So he moves his arms to lift your body; he's only half hard but filling fast, and if you're quiet-- if you're good and focused-- you can feel him growing in you, pressing up against your margins in the best way. And Mike follows; as soon as you're settled his mouth is back, hot and wet, lapping at the base of Walter's cock where it's buried in you to the hilt.</p>
<p><em>God, yes, that's it, that's perfect. Sweetheart, help me guide him </em>and now Walter's hand covers yours, now he is reaching to stroke together at Mike's cheeks, at his lips, at anything he can reach, while his voice is low and wrecked in your ear. <em>Someday, sweetheart, you'll take us both. I want to feel him sliding up against me while I'm inside you.</em> </p>
<p>And that's it, somehow, that's all it takes: the image of them, together, stretching you open. The thought drives the breath from your lungs and shatters you to pieces, coming hard and messy on Walter's cock, heaving for breath as he continues to move in you, slower than the first time but no less overwhelming, gritting his teeth against sensation as he feels you clench around him. <em>Up, </em>he says, and guides Mike up by the hair-- but gently, gently-- so that together they can lick at your neck, can tip your head back to kiss you and smear your face with spit and fluids. It's tender and filthy and it's all too much. </p>
<p>When at last Walter comes it's with a sigh breathed into your very lungs; it's with Mike pressing himself into the crease of your hip to take his pleasure; it's with lips and tongues and hands everywhere around you, cocooning you, holding you safe. </p>
<p>
  <em>So good, so good, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Ours)</em>
</p>
<p><em>Rest now. Shh. I'll (We'll) take care of you.</em> And you drift, to the feeling of a warm wet cloth between your legs, to the feeling of big warm bodies surrounding you. </p>
<p>And later, deep in the night, you wake to the blue glow of Mike at work, sitting cross-legged in the big chair; he looks up at you and smiles.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Baize</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He writes his story onto your skin.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s taking notes while he fucks you over a pool table. Mike’s buried in you to the hilt and he’s <em>taking notes.</em> The baize is all fucked up with pen marks; he’s trying to write one-handed with the other gripping at your hip, and his little notebook keeps slipping out of his hand. So instead he says<em> can I use you?</em></p>
<p>And isn’t he already? But he means, of course, to throw aside his notebook, to hitch his pants up high enough around his ass so that he can find a felt-tip pen in his pocket. Momentum slips for a moment but it’s worth it for the way he says <em>let me tell you what I’m writing,</em> for the way he holds you still with a hand at your nape and isn’t <em>that </em>something. </p>
<p>He’s breathless when he tells you about the scratchy feel of a woolen suit against your bare skin, a big hand gripping the rounded butt of a pool cue— <em>maybe he’ll fuck her with it, I haven’t decided yet</em>— and he’s holding himself back as best he can.<em> If I have him slam his thick velvety shaft into her lady garden, do you think it’s too much? Or not enough? I could compare the motion of their hips to the business end of a backhoe. </em></p>
<p>Mike’s rolling his hips against you like he could do this for hours, distracted by the words he writes on your skin. <em>I think— I think I might call him Henley. He’s an old-timey detective, just yearning to be touched. You know, the kind of pining hero people love to read about, the kind who stares off into the distance til he tears your clothes off and fucks you stupid. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>A real Byronic hero, huh?</em>
</p>
<p><em>Yeah, but with, like, shredded abs. Hey babe. Lemme help you with that. </em>And he reaches a hand down to stroke circles round your clit til you shudder and clench around him, but he isn’t done. There’s a wiggly pen line disappearing into your armpit from his hand slipping, from the moment when you squeezed him so tight. </p>
<p><em>Fuck, babe, I wish you could see this. </em>His voice sticks in his throat til it pulls free word by word with a click and a gasp, like he’s dying of thirst and someone told him water’s just around the bend. <em>Babe. My words on your skin. God, I wanna use this. Have to, fuck, the imagery, I— </em></p>
<p>He’s moving in you slow and careful, getting close, mindful of your sensitivity. And he drapes himself over your back, smearing ink onto himself because <em>fuck. Fucking hell, he would. One touch and he’d rut into you like a wild animal— </em>he’s picking up speed now, falling into rhythm, pen abandoned as he moves a hand to circle at you again, as he’s crushing the breath from your lungs. </p>
<p>
  <em>Just like this. Think about it, god, his hand so big he could cover the entire back of your head. And he would, without meaning to; he’d press your face into the tabletop so you’d get friction burns from the baize. Oh, oh listen to this: she has to go to dinner after, all dressed in— fuck, taffeta? The hell did Victorians wear— but her face is all red from where he held it down. And she touches it a little to remember how he felt— fuck, babe. Fuck, this is good. You’re good, you’re. </em>
</p>
<p>And oh, he’s going all to pieces in you; he drops his head to gasp against your back, openmouthed and panting and <em>Jesus, fuck, I— </em>and when he pulls back it’s with a slide of sticky fluids down your thigh; it’s wirh a rueful laugh as he sees the mess he’s left, ink smeared everywhere. And when you turn to look at him you can almost make out the words, like mimeographs of mimeographs across his chest and belly. And it’s hard to tell, but perhaps the words spell out—</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Help From My Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Walter and the Reader fuck. Mike watches.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Hey Walter. You busy?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. Is this about your dirty stories?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Generally, yeah. So you coming over or what?</em>
</p>
<p>And when he gets the three of you all together, Mike lays out his problem: he wants to see the action, wants that separated view  and </p>
<p><em>Babe. I want to watch him fuck you. If— if that’s alright. I’ve got some ideas, but I wanna block it out, get a good visual in my head. It takes hard work to write prose this wild, you know. </em>And yeah, you’ve seen Mike in the throes of a new novel, thesaurus in one hand and the stem of his reading glasses between his teeth.</p>
<p>
  <em>(Hey babe. Listen to this. “And as she slid down onto Stirling’s rigid pole like a stripper on five dollar Friday, he could feel the moist depths of her feminine cavern stretching wide to accommodate his—“ babe. You’re laughing. I’m struggling and you’re laughing. Come on. You know my fans just eat this stuff up)</em>
</p>
<p>Mike knows, of course he knows. And his grin is broad when Walter watches him long and searchingly, when he rakes a hand through his curls and sighs <em>alright, Michael. What have you got in mind? </em></p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve got the whole thing in my head, almost. Waltham’s got his hands gripping the iron bedstead— you think it’d rust on a ship? Maybe I should switch to wood—- his back’s bowed and the heroine is kissing her way down his neck, down his chest— babe, maybe you should follow along while I talk, yeah? </em>
</p>
<p>And <em>yeah. Fuck yeah.</em> Walter settles on the bed and lifts his hands to the headboard, fingers loosely curled and his whole aspect softly indulgent. </p>
<p>
  <em>Okay, babe. Keep going. So she’s kissing her way down his chest, tugging a little at his chest hair— he’s a pirate, he’s gotta be all hairy and virile, someone you could absolutely see shoving you up against the bulkheads with a hand under your skirt— so she’s tugging at it and she closes her teeth around his nipple</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Fuck)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, Walter, that’s it, he’d arch up just like that, like he can’t fuckin believe what he just felt, that electric pulse that feels like a string from his nipples right to his cock. And she’d do it again, this time with a pinch and roll of the other one between her fingers— Walter. You uh. You really like that, don’t you?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. I— fuck. Oh sweetheart, again. With the flat of your tongue this time— what next? We will follow your lead</em>
</p>
<p>And Mike shifts, spreading his legs; there’s a tent in his sweats and he palms his cock almost absently but his eyes are big and dark. He tugs his shirt off overhead and <em>be careful with those, Michael; </em>he’s mimicking the motion of your tongue with his fingers, mindful of the barbells in his nipples, moving them so gently with finger and thumb and <em>if you aren’t careful, sweet boy, you’ll be too distracted for your work. Do I need to stop?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Please. Please— fuck. Keep going. I need to. Need to see. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Then get yourself out, sweet boy. Touch yourself while she rides me. Isn’t that what you had in mind?</em>
</p>
<p>Yeah, it is, and Mike doesn’t mind being found out; he just tugs his sweats down and closes a spit-slick hand around his cock and hey babe. <em>I need him to open you up, can you lean forward just a little? Need to see. Need to— fuck. Babe. Babe, you’re dripping. Jesus, okay. Walter. Please. Please</em></p>
<p>And Walter doesn’t rush; he’s big and thick and he takes his sweet time and <em>remember, Michael. Remember to move his hands from the headboard to her cunt. Don’t want to confuse anyone. </em></p>
<p><em>Yeah, yeah, who’s the bestselling author here, you or me? Cmon. Lift her up, help her sit on your cock. </em>It makes you gasp, doesn’t it, the way Walter controls your slow descent, the way he opens you on his cock inch by exquisite inch, slow enough to make you whine</p>
<p>
  <em>Are you watching, Michael? How would you describe the way she rides me?</em>
</p>
<p><em>I, uh. Fuck. Fuck, I can’t think. Something like— memories of carousel rides at dusk; clasping his veiny pole with her slick walls, she could hear calliope music in the squelching clench of her feminine passage— </em><br/><br/>And there is something to it, in the way Walter pulls you down til he feels like he’ll split you in two, in the way he then rolls his hips and hisses at your hands on his nipples again</p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetheart, keep doing that and it’ll be over before— Christ— before you know it, I</em>
</p>
<p>Because this simple act has him coming apart at the seams; that, and the glances he keeps stealing at Mike, at the way he watches Mike watching him, at the way his hand is delicate on his piercings, drifting back and forth between them like he doesn’t want either one to feel neglected, at the way he strokes himself and cants his hips and whines. </p>
<p><em>Michael. You can if you want, sweet boy. Will you let me see? </em>And Walter is gentle; he helps you turn your body so you both can watch Mike in the throes of orgasm, eyes hazing over with pleasure, hand wet and slick and with every stroke Walter matches him; there is no sound but the wet noise of skin on skin and soft whines; watching them watch each other is so terribly intimate. And you chase after them as fast as you can with a hand circling on your clit; distantly there’s the pulse of Walter coming inside but it’s suddenly so far away, so unimportant because you’re close, so close, you’re nearly there you’re </p>
<p>
  <em>Gorgeous, babe, just fucking unbelievable how </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(good you are, sweetheart)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s just so— I’m almost afraid to write it down, to break the spell. Babe, it’s beautiful, you’re beautiful, I—</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Stirling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Hey babe, can you— can you— I want to watch you touch yourself, show me everything you like. I’ve got these ideas for Stirling. I know he’s your favorite. </em>
</p>
<p>Mike’s grinning like the cat that got the cream; he says <em>sit, please, spread your legs. A little more. Like that </em>and he cuffs your ankles to the chair legs—<em> quick release, see? Looks just like the real thing, though, doesn’t it—</em> so you’re spread open, with just the sweetest little burning edge as the position pulls your legs apart. </p>
<p>
  <em>See, he’s a spy, right? Good at extracting information, but he’s gotta do it all sexy. He’s gotta put his target off their game, and, well. Hard to think straight if you’re— ooh, sit tight. I wanna write this down—</em>
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p>
<p>
  <em></em>
</p>
<p><em>‘She felt the cold grip of the cuffs, hard like death’s icy fingers, as Stirling peeled her legs apart, exposing her juicy folds like the layers of an onion, fetid with all the swampy wetness of a woman aroused’— yes, I know what fetid means, that’s not the point— </em>and Mike is grinning the manic grin of a man inspired; he writes almost faster than he can think, lower lip between his teeth and an impressive tent in his grey sweats<br/>
<em><br/>
(So why do you like them so much?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Because I can see your cockline so well, pretty boy.)</em>
</p>
<p>and almost absently he’s murmuring <em>hey babe, touch yourself for me, yeah? Get yourself warmed up. Left your hands free for a reason. Lemme just, god, yeah, just like that. </em>And there’s that grin again, sharp-toothed and hungry and <em>that’s it, babe. You love it when I watch, don’t you? What do you think it is? Is it the showing off, or is it the being seen?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Bastard. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Babe, you love it. Now suck your fingers for me, get them nice and wet. More. Dripping, you think Stirling wouldn’t make you suck on his? He’d pet your tongue, babe, he’d press down til your mouth opens up; he’d make you look at him and see how commanding he is. He’s not like you and me, babe. He’s calculating. Cold. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Remote. Lonely. He— fuck— he can’t afford to be close to anyone. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh babe, that’s it, that’s so good. Look at you, it’s like you read my mind. Now go slow, I wanna get this down. Hold yourself open with your other hand, babe. Let me see inside you. Okay. Okay. This has to go in. Fuck, I wish you could see this. Hey. Hey, babe. What’s a way to say— okay. I think I’ve got it. Listen to this, my fans are gonna eat this shit up with a spoon. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘His limpid cerulean pools bore straight through her like cenotes deep into the earth; with her swollen womanly love tunnel held open he could almost see the light at the end, like a train conductor heading for the station, and when he shoved two meaty fingers deep into that moist canal she swore she heard angels singing,’ babe, listen. You can come whenever you want. The more sensitive you are, the easier it’s gonna be for Stirling to get the intel he needs. Come on your own hand but don’t stop, don’t stop. I know you can do it. Keep going for him. You can say his name if you want; he likes that. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Listen. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. Seeing him across the room at some fancy party, watching the light glint off his tie pin; Stirling is pretty and strong and full of secrets. This is the prequel so it’s the first meeting; he hasn’t yet got your scent stuck in his mind. He’s still cold, babe, still thinking about how he can use your pleasure to get what he wants. Add another finger, good girl, that’s it. Think about how much better it’d feel if it were him. </em>
</p>
<p>Mike’s abandoned his notes now; he palms himself through his sweats, precome seeping darkly through;<em> babe. You close? I want you to say his name. Look at me, </em>pants caught halfway down his thighs now, stroking himself and <em>this is how fucking hard he is for you, babe, just thinking about all the filthy things he can do while you’re all helpless like that. Come on. Work your clit, fuck yourself on his fingers, harder, come on. He’s gonna make you come, babe, that’s it—</em></p>
<p><em>Oh fuck, fuck, Mi— Stirling— please— </em>and that’s it, the last piece that sends you over at last, that sends Mike over as well, coming hard across his belly, with a gasping moan and his notes falling to the floor all around him. And it’s sensitive enough to make you whine, but you’re still moving those fingers, feeling your own walls  fluttering weakly through the aftershocks of orgasm. </p>
<p>Mike pulls himself together enough to rasp out that’s it, good girl, just how he likes you, all weak and trembling for him. Think about it, babe. How he’d dive right back in and make you come on his hand over and over til you’re screaming, til you’d tell him anything he wants, just so long as he keeps touching you, or as long as he stops, you’d be so fucking far gone you wouldn’t even be able to tell what you wanted. So he’d do whatever he wanted, and he’d make it so goddamn good, babe, he’d make it so worth it— but babe. C’mon, I’ve gotta get you up. Let’s go to bed, and I’ll tell you a story. </p>
<p>Once upon a time there was a man who fell, and a pretty thing who nursed him back to health...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Writer’s Block</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A little bit of a side trip.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re not like oil and water, babe. They’re more like… gasoline and a lit match, like standing on the roof in a storm, arms outstretched, screaming into the night, daring god and all his angels to strike you down. They are so much, so much, and I wish you were here to see them. </p>
<p>Wish you could see the way they challenge one another, the way Walter’s gentleness is fraying around the edges, the way Sy looks at him like he can’t decide whether to kiss him or tear out his throat. And I watch, babe, I sit in my chair and write, but more and more my hands fall away from the keys and all I can do is look at them, at their strange dance. </p>
<p>I know they’re aware of me, but I don’t know how much. Sometimes Walter will look around and peer through the curtains like he’s trying to find the source of the tapping, like if he can just move fast enough he’ll see something. But other times, I don’t know. Other times he rests his chin in his hands and stares right into the corner, right at me, but it’s like he’s looking at an empty chair. I can’t— I can’t get him to react. I’ve tried yelling, waving my arms, even jerking myself off right in front of him, and still nothing. </p>
<p>And Sy? Babe, I wish I knew. He’s here, and he and Walter snarl and spit, but then he disappears somewhere. I hear his footsteps heavy overhead, like he’s pacing, like he’s trying to wear a hole through the boards. I try to reach for him, but he’s so far away. </p>
<p>I don’t know where they go when they’re not in this room, but I hear them. I hear rustling and banging, the steady tick-tock rhythm like a headboard against a wall— not like a headboard, it is one— I saw them once, when I could still move freely around the house, before I was stuck in this stupid little room and this stupid little chair. I know, I know. I’m complaining. I’m breathing, so it could be worse. But anyway. I saw them, that time, fucking like they were fighting; did I tell you about that? Time passes so strangely here. Anyway. </p>
<p>I saw them, babe, but they didn’t see me. Didn’t hear me. I put my hands on them and they were warm, alive, but they were lost to themselves. Walter had Sy pushed down halfway onto the bed and had their thighs slotted together like a puzzle; you could hear the rasp of hair from their thighs and their beards— fuck, it wasn’t even a kiss, it was a bite, it was them trying to consume each other. And the sounds they made. Not loud, god, they’re so much quieter than you’d think. But they made these groans, low and throaty, like they were dying. I almost died with them, babe; I watched Walter’s hand heavy on their cocks, holding them together. I watched Sy reach to grip his hand over Walter’s. I watched the way they came together, and the way they disentangled with sticky hands. </p>
<p>I saw Sy licking at his hand, and the way Walter’s eyes followed every move; I saw that tight focus and the way he swallowed hard, the way his cock twitched where it was still hanging out of his jeans. I saw the way he tried to speak, and stopped, and tried again. I heard the words he didn’t say. I heard them, and I saw it all, babe. I saw the heavy thud of Sy’s heart beating against his rib cage, all trepidation and god, that moment when he realized he could have this. The moment when it was just the two of them and the bed and the house, nothing to interrupt them because I—</p>
<p>I miss the way this used to come easy. Used to be I could follow them from room to room; I watched them figuring it out. I saw Walter in the kitchen with flour on his sweater; I watched Sy reading out loud in the evening, <em>This Side of Paradise, </em>I think. It’s been a while. I watched them so carefully not talking to each other, but then later, the way Sy barred his arm across Walter’s back in the shower, the way water droplets blew from their mouths with every shuddering breath. I saw Walter pressed against the frosted glass, the outline of his hand on his cock, the way the soap slid down their bodies. </p>
<p>I saw them, babe, Christ. I saw so much, but then one day I couldn’t leave this room. And sometimes they come here for a little while, but I miss them and I don’t know how to keep them with me. If you were here you’d tell me <em>rest easy, they’ll be back. One day the door will open. </em></p>
<p>And I try to be patient; I try so damned hard, and I wish you were here. You could take my hand and pull me to my feet; you could stroke my hair while I pick the lock, and together we could creep down the hall and up the stairs and see what they’re up to. Fucking again, probably, in some room or another. Maybe sleeping, all tangled up and warm together. Sy’s got a leg thrown over Walter; they’re murmuring half-nonsense as they drift into sleep, and Walter says—</p>
<p>He says—</p>
<p>Oh babe, I think I. I see them. Fuck. I have to get this down. Hold on. I’ll call you back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Dogs and Horses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mike goes darker and edgier with a new series. This chapter contains discussion of noncon roleplay/fantasy in a consensual setting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Listen to this: ‘He laid out his tools like a butcher would; between his fingers slick ran blood-warm, slippery and clear like liquid crystal. In the deep blue pits of his eyes were reflected all her hidden sins; he would tease them out and render her empty of anything except the need of him.’ Does that sound about right, babe? It’s a new series, a little darker. A little edgier. The kind of thing bored housewives read in the bath when their husbands aren’t around. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>So who is this guy? Arthur, I mean. Why’s he doing this? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Well, babe, he says it’s because he needs information. He uses his targets’ weaknesses against them. You know, torture, pain, the usual. But for this— to titillate those readers looking for just a little spice— he uses pleasure. Remember how Stirling did it? Sort of like that, but more toys. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Is that why—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Listen, babe. I’d want to do this anyway, just to see you so fucking wet for me. Besides. I want to see if you really can come enough to pass out. What do you say?</em>
</p>
<p>The egg inside you is a bone-deep insistence; Mike has you describe every sensation as he takes his notes, doing his best to put on an impersonal face but he glances up with such <em>heat</em> in his eyes. There are the seeds of Arthur buried in him, germinating into this: into his fingers reaching to catch and tug the egg’s loop, to manipulate it inside you to find that spot that has you gasping. </p>
<p>
  <em>He would frustrate you, babe, make you beg for more, but he’d hold you on the edge. And with you in the spreader bar for him like this, you can’t even find any relief. You're completely at his mercy, helpless and open. And listen:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Then Arthur took up the slick on his fingers, like the mucoid coating of some terrible creature; with fingers thick like serpents he worked her open, even her tight little rosebud helpless against the onslaught of his pleasure; at first she was uneasy, but his words in her ear won her over, and gradually she opened up to let him in—‘ yeah, I know. They love that stuff— ‘and his icy cerulean orbs, dark like the circles on a peacock’s feather, cold as a disappointed schoolteacher when the last exam has been failed, burned their fiery gaze into her rear passage as his thick fingers disappeared inside.’ Babe. You’re laughing again. Ha, you feel that? That nice thick plug in your ass? Wait till you see what it does, babe. </em>
</p>
<p>What it does, as it turns out, is vibrate, playing counterpoint to the egg buried in your cunt; it’s so much, but it isn’t enough. Mike runs a hand over the swell of your ass, trailing his fingers over the base of the plug. <em>God, you’re gorgeous like this. He could keep you like this for hours, never quite able to come, ass up for him, til you break. Til he could ask you anything and you would answer, just so he would get you off. Tell me, babe. Will you break for him? Will you give him everything he wants?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck, he’ll have to do better than that. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Like this? </em>And the intensity increases; liquid need is cooling on your thighs and Mike is circling like a hungry animal, trying to memorize every angle; he sees your face, mashed into the cushion; he admires your ass as you shift and twitch in the search for relief; he says<em> listen. He would tie you to a chair, or string your arms up above your head, but he’s done his homework. He wants you absolutely exposed, open, and here he could so easily take what he wants, because your pretty cunt and your ass are right. there. for him. He knows you, knows that what really makes you weak is the thought of him overwhelming you while you’re helpless, taking out his toys while you’re shivering through the aftershocks of too many orgasms, fucking into you like a beast. He wants your face down and your ass up, so you can’t see his eyes. How am I doing so far?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>I think it might be a little much for your housewives. They probably barely get out of missionary. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You’re probably right. I’ll have him tie her hands to the headboard or something. But you, babe. You want to stay like this? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck. Yeah, yeah, it’s good. I just. Fuck, I need. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Babe. Once he makes you come once he’s not going to stop. He’s gonna bring you off over and over til you cry, til you can’t remember your own name but he’s gonna make you give up all your secrets anyway. And then he’s gonna fuck your pretty ass. So let me ask you: are you ready for that?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Give— fuck. Give me all you’ve got.</em> A beat. <em>Arthur, please. Please, I can’t take it. I need to come, I— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh babe, you know that’s music to his ears. Now, you feel that? That’s him turning the vibes to maximum. And that’s his hand, touching your clit. That’ll be his only point of contact until he fucks you, babe, even though he knows how much you want to feel him skin to skin. Even though it’s wrong. Even though it’s him torturing you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘You can hurt with pleasure just as well as pain, he says, as she’s gasping and moaning, all the air rushing out from her like she’s a deflating balloon and he’s a performer at this strange birthday party of sin; I’ve had you on the edge, you poor pathetic little thing. Now I’ll drop you off this cliff, my dear. Every stone you hit on the way down will be another orgasm for me. Every branch that tears at you will be another spike of pleasure in your gut, until at last you hit the ground moaning and weeping. And then, my dear, I will take you in the fashion of dogs and horses, until I am satisfied, or until you give me the answers I want.’ </em>
</p>
<p>Mike’s hand on you is a blessing, at first. The first time you come is sweet relief, a clenching and uncoiling, all that tension letting go at once. But just like he promised, he doesn’t stop. He isn’t even taking notes anymore, just spitting out prose as it comes, like he isn’t even aware of what he’s saying. His hand stays on you, through two, three more times, until you’re soaked with sweat, cursing more weakly each time, until you’re begging <em>please. Please. Anything. I’ll tell you anything. I need, I need— </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Still with me, babe?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fucking Christ, yes. But it’s so much. I can’t. </em>
</p>
<p><em>You’re gonna. I know you can. </em>And he works the plug so gently from your ass, admiring the way the muscle contracts. But it’s not quite enough for him, and so he works you open with slick fingers, slopping lube everywhere, pushing it inside, and all the while that egg is still pulsing in your cunt, unavoidable, overwhelming with how sensitive you are. </p>
<p><em>There you are. You’re ready. Aren’t you gorgeous, so filthy and open. This is where he gives you that contact, babe. </em>This is where he drapes himself across your back, peeling your ass apart with his hands, and he works his way inside. He’s thick and hot and thank god he gave you that extra prep. <em>Babe. I can still feel it buzzing in you. That’s, fuck, what would it be? ‘Like a horde of angry bees’ maybe, or Christ, I don’t know. I can’t. Can’t think. </em></p>
<p><em>Worry about it later.</em> And it’s not like feeling as though you’ll be split in half; he was careful,<em> is </em>careful, and so there’s no pain, but still it’s so much. It’s more like being full beyond full, bombarded with the slick hot sensation of him moving in you; between that and the toy and <em>Christ, </em>the way he stills and pulses hot inside, it all has you so close that his hand fumbling to your clit has you coming one final time before the world greys out around you. </p>
<p><em>Babe. You okay? </em>At some point Mike’s gotten you out of the spreader bar and taken out the egg; he strokes a hand gentle down your back and grins a little, the dopey satisfied grin of a man who’s gotten off hard. It’s a beautiful sight. </p>
<p>
  <em>You get what you need?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Did I get— babe, all that and more. I’ll have to spend some time with it, purple it up. And I think I kind of, uh, forgot to take notes after a while. But you’ll help me remember, won’t you? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Does it mean we can do this again? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Any time you want, babe. Seeing you like that, helpless, needy. I— it was so good. You were so good. Just goddamn gorgeous. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Thrill of Being Seen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Does it matter what the infraction is? Maybe, but it’s a detail, a side excursion, a distraction from the main point, which is this: Mike has one hand cuffed to the table and the other playing at his fly, and he is going to jerk himself off in front of the one way glass. He heard the cops as they were leaving, drawling <em>good luck with this one, Walter. Turn off the lights on your way out. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Hey. Anybody there?</em>
</p>
<p>And there’s no answer so maybe he’s there and maybe he’s not; Mike’s seen enough cop shows to know the mirror is really a window. There could be anyone behind it, watching, and that knowledge sends a little frisson of lust through him, straight to his cock. Mike's off hand is clumsy opening his fly; he’s half-hard already and <em>Christ </em>it’s a rush. He could nearly get off just from the thrill of it and </p>
<p><em>What do you think you’re doing?</em> Mike's hand stills; the voice is distorted through the speaker and maybe it’s him, maybe it isn’t. </p>
<p>
  <em>Boss?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I didn’t say stop, pretty boy. I said, what do you think you’re doing? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Fuck, Walter, it’s like this. Don’t laugh, but I have this fantasy of you and me, down at the precinct —)</em>
</p>
<p><em>I— I’m touching myself. Sir. </em>The last part is hesitant like an afterthought; even through the tinny speaker you can hear the tremor in his voice. And Walter’s words resonate through that deep thick body of his, down to his cock, where you’d swear you can feel the vibrations through that fine skin. </p>
<p>
  <em>That’s it, sweetheart. Keep me nice and warm. And louder: go on, Michael. What’s your status? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Green, sir. And I— I’m left handed, so it’s hard. Not quite like someone else’s hand, but awkward. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And how does that make you feel? Fumbling, inelegant, knowing I’m here judging you behind the glass?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck. I. Fuck. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Words, pretty boy. Use them. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m getting off on it, alright? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>So you like to put on a show, do you? Want me to judge your performance? Well. Show me. Make it good enough and I’ll think about letting you out of here. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Tell me more. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You’re angry, you’re scary, ordering me to jerk myself off for you. And I know you’re there behind the mirror, getting off to it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Can I— can I watch? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Babe, you know it. Or what about— hey boss, you think you could fuck her in the booth?)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Better make it good, boy. I’ve got a pretty little thing pinned on my cock right now, and once I’m done with her you better hope I’m bored of you. Or not. Maybe I’ll leave you there covered in your own spend for the morning shift to find. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You wouldn’t—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Please, fuck, threaten me, make my heart race, I wanna show off and have you bring me down hard.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Is this gonna go in your new book?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Maybe. Fuck, it’s just. With the deadline coming I’ve been so stressed, this is all I can think about)</em>
</p>
<p>And Mike is licking his palm; with slow uncertain strokes he begins. But confidence grows until he’s arching into it, eyes heavy, so close— </p>
<p><em>Easy, sweetheart. There you go. Can you see him? How close he is already? You’ve been so good for me, kept me nice and warm and ready. I’m going to fuck you hard, now, sweetheart. I want him to hear it, so be as loud as you want for me, alright? </em>And there’s Walter’s hand mashing down the speaker button; Mike looks up, startled, directly toward you; his hand clenches hard enough on his cock that he winces. That hand on the desk is holding up Walter’s entire weight; his other hand is hitching up your leg and fuck, he’s so warm and heavy on you, belly to belly, his inhuman patience bleeding away </p>
<p>(<em>Like that, sweetheart. I know, you’d rather sit on it, but look. If you tip your head back you can see him perfectly)</em></p>
<p>and there’s that aching pleasure of a sweet stretch now that’ll be an ache later, always is (and <em>Christ, </em>how you crave it). And Walter was right; through the glass Mike’s eyes burn into you, seeing without seeing; what is he picturing in his mind’s eye? He’s twitching and jerking, his whole body curving into sensation as Walter continues to use you hard, gritting out words between the hisses and grunts of animal pleasure. </p>
<p>
  <em>Sweet boy. Are you picturing it, what it’d be like if I were fucking you instead? Do you know how thoroughly I could ruin you? Even if I wanted to be kind, sweetheart, you’d be aching after. Every step you took would be a reminder of how far I was inside you. But I don’t need to tell you, do I? Just listen. Listen to this pretty little thing coming apart under me. Yeah, sweet boy. I’m deep inside her and I’m thinking about what it’s like inside that pretty ass of yours. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Christ, you two. I know this is Mike’s thing but uh. It’s kind of doing a lot for me too. You remember that chase thing we did? The being used? Yeah. Um. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetheart, don’t be ashamed. It’s a good thing. We’re doing this for Mike, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it as well. And if you want to be used— well, we can certainly add that in. Here’s what I’m thinking.)</em>
</p>
<p>Mike is lost to words; all he can do is grunt out little sharp <em>ohs </em>and gasp as his balls draw up tight; if he had both hands he’d take the other to press firm behind his balls, to reach for his pleasure center from the outside. But as it is, the fingers of his cuffed hand clench helplessly in a fist as he’s gasping <em>please;</em> he comes hard over his fist with a wounded sound. And Walter— Walter—</p>
<p><em>There you are, sweet boy. But what a mess you’ve made. Clean it up. That’s right. Every drop. </em>And softly, softly, in your ear: <em>good girl. I’m close, sweetheart, Christ, the sight of him. Can you help me get you off? </em>It’s a little difficult, getting a hand in, but you manage, fingers circling your clit with the rasp of his belly hair against the back of your hand. And it’s not long before his stomach muscles tense and he’s coming in long pulsing waves, pressing himself as deep as he can get; you’d swear you can taste his come. </p>
<p>
  <em>(But where are we gonna do this? Isn’t there always someone around at your work?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve got an idea. One of the older wings is closed for renovations. And I know the foreman, he’s a good guy. A friend. Sympathetic to this sort of thing.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Is he cute?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh sweetheart, you’d love him. Thick beard, built like a brick shithouse. Maybe someday I’ll introduce you.)</em>
</p>
<p>And there’s Mike, nice and clean, trying unsuccessfully to tuck himself away one-handed, hissing a little from the sensitivity. <em>Fuck. Fuck, that was good. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>How you holding up, Michael?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>All good, all— green, boss. But ah. How long are you gonna leave me in here?</em>
</p>
<p>And Walter huffs a little, smiling against your neck. <em>Alright. Let’s go get our boy. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Tentacular</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mike’s been writing a little more niche stuff lately. This time he’s bringing out the tentacles.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Hey, babe. What’s another word for dick? I’ve already used cock, iron rod, velvety shaft, weeping member, even flaming sword. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Turgid— ah, fuck. Damn it, Mike— staff? Turgid staff? Christ, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep doing that. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Shh. Babe. Be good and don’t distract me. The sooner you let me finish, the sooner I can fuck you how you like it. </em>And he rolls his hips just a little, the bastard, for a moment driving himself deep, rubbing his pubic bone and thatch of hair against you, ratcheting your need even higher. <em>Hey. Rest your head on my shoulder. Be nice and still for me. There you go. That’s good. </em></p>
<p>Mike is warm and thick and so <em>hard </em>inside you, and this patience is something new, something he must’ve picked up from Walter. He’s been more settled lately. Calmer. Sleeping better, even, and what a relief that is, waking to the soft brush of lips wrapped around your earlobe instead of to agonized screams. </p>
<p><em>Babe. Listen to this. ‘His wide cerulean orbs radiated all the heat of the morning glory pool, dark and deep and secretive, filled with burning acid. He gazed upon her with all the fire of the good stovetop burner’s gas flame, the color of twilight and deep rocky caves where eyeless fish live.’ It’s not quite there yet— </em>he gives a sharp, deep thrust, arm coming up to bar across your lower back, holding you still for him— <em>but I need to purple up this next draft. My editor says it’s getting a little too close to literary. </em>He types one-handed for a while, holding your body flush against his, moving just often enough to drive you mad. </p>
<p>He’s been struggling with this one, with Simon’s return to civilian life, all the heroics and terrors of battle following in his wake. And here you are to keep Mike company, to keep him warm, to keep him centered. To sob into his shoulder as he reaches around your body to type, laptop sitting on the bed before him, keys clicking softly as you tense your legs around his waist. To shift your hips in a futile search for more, only to hear his voice in your ear, rough with barely contained need<em>. Babe. Be good. Shh. Hold still and I’ll read to you a little. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>‘When he woke, the shadows crawled like inky tentacles up the sides of the bed, wrapping his limbs in their immovable grip. He could feel his rigid maypole shivering in time to his shaky breaths, his precome raining down like silk streamers. It fell cold and wet on his thighs—‘ yeah, I know, babe. I know. I wanna fuck you so bad, wanna roll you under me and spread you wide, wanna fuck you deep til you can taste it. Thought about taking it slow but I don’t think I can. Not after this. I bet Walter could though, right boss?</em>
</p>
<p>Walter <em>hmms </em>a little, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest as he idly palms at his fly.<em> Michael. Would you read a little more?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>‘It was a strange dream, frightening like shells screaming overhead, like the terrible silence that followed, and yet something crept and crawled after him, sand sticking to its many mucus-coated tentacles—‘ yes, babe, he’s totally gonna get fucked by a tentacle monster, I told you I was doing some niche shit lately— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Simon could still see them in the shadows, and as much as he wanted to hate it, the truncheon standing between his legs twitched and pulsed as he remembered the dream; as those oil-slick shadows twined around him he recalled the grit and dirt sticking to the creature, so that its tentacles felt like a rough tongue when they stroked over him and then inside him.’ I still need to get some of the descriptions fixed, try to find some more synonyms for dick, maybe some more details about Simon getting fucked by the tentacle monster. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A— Christ. A tentacle monster. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, and you like it. I felt that. Listen, babe. Think about it. Think about being pinned down, your clothes torn open, and somehow it knows exactly how you like it. And it can ripple and swell inside you. It can fill up every hole so perfectly, like it was made from the negative mold of you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Michael. I think someone’s about at their limit. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Yeah, boss. I know. </em>And Mike leans to set the laptop on a side table; it shifts him so deliciously inside you. <em>Ready babe? </em>And just as he promised he rolls you underneath him, hands coming down to part your thighs and hold them apart, to give a few testing thrusts to make sure he’s fully seated. And then he moves. </p>
<p>He keeps your legs pushed up and back as best he can, to make you feel the stretch and burn of it, to feel you shift against him and ripple with want when he hitches his hips to drive himself deeper. He’s positively vibrating with energy, with the concentration that comes from keeping himself together and <em>Mike. Hey. Hey. Please. Can you—</em></p>
<p><em>Yeah. </em>His hand comes up to guide you over the edge, to find that thin bright line where need burns bright inside you. <em>Think about it, babe. How good it’d feel, how all you could think about is how completely you’re being filled. I want to see it disappearing inside you, work my fingers into the mess it leaves. See you tired and sated and filthy and— </em></p>
<p>And Mike buries his face in the crook of your neck; when he comes it’s a gasping sob, thick and wet. There’s a quiet groan from Walter in his chair, watching the two of you come undone. <em>Good. That’s good. </em></p>
<p>And Mike descends to lick you clean; he takes all his spend back into himself and pulls you to the edge again; when he surges up to kiss you it’s with the taste of you both heavy on his tongue. <em>Hey,</em> he says, and it’s a gift, this little moment: the soft brush of his lips against your temple, the deep sigh as he relaxes against you. </p>
<p>
  <em>Hey Mike. Does Simon— does he get his happy ending?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, babe. He does. He really, really does. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>